


Intrusion

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [16]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Past Abuse, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7115383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Probably some background would be useful. So, deduce away,” she requested rather cheerily. “I do not wish to waste any time telling you what you already know."</p><p>In John H. Watson’s dispatch box, there are some manuscripts that were never intended to see the light of day, but there are completed but as of yet unpublished stories of cases, and there are also others that, with some rewriting, were possibly intended for publication. This is one example—with some judicious editing of the more personal aspects of the tale, it most certainly would have been appropriate to appear in The Strand.</p><p>It does make the reader wonder how many of the published cases had been edited in just such a way—the doctor carefully re-writing his manuscript to eliminate all of the inappropriate portions before sending it off to his publisher. As usual, Sherlock Holmes has interjected a few notes of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intrusion

There are many times that, in writing about our cases, I have to change details—names, dates, and locations, mostly—to protect the privacy of the individuals involved. In fact, this was the case the vast majority of the time. Miss Violet Hunter, for example, probably would not have achieved the position of headmistress of a school if her potential employers had known of her involvement in the bizarre and disturbing household nestled at the end of the drive lined with copper beeches. It was not any reflection upon her character or abilities, but society sometimes reacted unfairly to such circumstances.  
  
I mention her specifically because she was one of very few clients—particularly those of the gentler sex—for whom Sherlock showed admiration. In fact, she had been exemplary—brave to reach out to him for advice, brave to take the position, and extremely brave to have managed herself in that house of subterfuge.  
  
She, The Woman, and a handful more—including Mrs. Hudson, who once very calmly knocked a burglar out cold with a cast iron pan—earned his interest and respect.  
  
Mrs. Jeremiah Hayling is one of this honoured group.  
  
It was a weekday, mid-morning. Sherlock was somewhat fitfully playing his violin, in a rather petulant mood. I was doing my best to ignore him, I admit, busying myself with catching up on some correspondence.  
  
“You cannot go that week,” he said suddenly, eyeing one of his tuning keys suspiciously.  
  
“I cannot… what are you talking about?” I asked before I could stop myself.  
  
“You are telling your old school friend that you will visit the first week of next month, but you cannot.”  
  
“And why,” I sighed, “can’t I?” I did not bother to inquire as to his line of reasoning. He was, as always, correct.  
  
“Because I do not wish for you to go.”  
  
My somewhat sharp retort—I clearly had been indulging him far too much—was cut short by the sound of the bell. We both dashed to the window that overlooked the street. “Woman. Middle class. Decisive,” he stated.  
  
“Fairly well-dressed—full mourning,” I noted.  
  
“Client!” we both shouted.  
  
The scramble to tidy ourselves and the room was as comical as anything playing on the stage. Sherlock was wearing trousers, which without braces were threatening to end up around his ankles, a dressing gown, and nothing else. I was a bit more decent—having added vest, shirt, braces, and socks to my trousers—but earlier I had been discarding newspapers rather decoratively in the direction of Sherlock’s armchair, teasing him when he protested that they were all dull and that the criminals were not being clever enough for him. Then he had laughed and started counting how many times I reached my mark with each crumbled sheet.  
  
“Get into your room and get some clothes on!” I hissed at him, simultaneously shoving my feet into slippers and pulling on a coat. I swept the bits of paper off his chair and used my slippered foot to slide them under it. He had dashed into his room and I could vaguely hear him bashing about. I admit it—I chuckled. We were quite the pair.  
  
I was counting. I knew that he was counting. How many beats for Mrs. Hudson to answer the door? How many to inquire, quite formally, about the visitor’s identity and purpose? Turning for the salver. Accepting the caller’s card. Steadily, one step at a time, ascending the seventeen steps to our rooms. A polite, measured knock. A pause. Another knock.  
  
And then she would enter, shutting the door firmly behind herself.  
  
“You boys—get yourselves decent! I cannot believe I have to tell you this again. What is that burning in the grate? Open a window!”  
  
She would slam down the salver, the card slipping to the floor at times, and rush over to the window to let in some fresh air, whilst I sheepishly shoved various objects into various hiding places and Sherlock pulled a fresh shirt over his thin chest.  
  
Then she would turn and slowly—so slowly—descend, and even more slowly bring up the visitor. Usually by the time they entered our sitting room, Sherlock was decently covered, his hair was tamed, and I had managed to hide away the majority of the objectionable objects.  
  
Mrs. Hudson receives generous and numerous gifts from both of us each Christmas and throughout the year.  
  
*  
  
So, that day, a woman was ushered into our sitting-room. In hindsight, I recognise the analysing look, accomplished in one sweep of a piercing eye, but I did not immediately discern how observant she was. In return, Sherlock’s sharp eye swept over her.  
  
What did I see before me? Most noticeably, she was tiny—so very tiny. She had delicate features, in proportion to her stature, which was that of a typical girl not more than twelve years old. Her features revealed, however, that she was certainly older than this. She was not yet thirty, I did not believe, but she was much closer to that age than to twenty. Her eyes were light and her hair an undistinguished shade of brown, but neatly arranged beneath her black hat, which was adorned with a single black feather.  
  
She removed one black glove. “Of course this is Mr. Holmes,” she stated, stepping forward and extending her hand. “How do you do? And Doctor Watson—this is a distinct pleasure. I am a great admirer of your stories.” She must have caught my expression and smiled sweetly. “Oh, goodness. Of course I know which one of you is the great detective. Unlike so many of your apparently idiotic clients, I can most certainly determine which of you is which by both your descriptions and the illustrations in _The Strand._ ”  
  
Sherlock chuckled at my more-than-slight discomfort. “Our guest is correct, Watson,” he commented, reaching for his cherry-wood pipe. “Your tales do tend to start a bit too often with a client needing guidance on a rather simple observation. I honestly have never understood why so many of your readers seem to accept the fact that no one can recognise me even though you do write quite accurate descriptions.”  
  
I was not certain if I should consider myself insulted or complimented. We would discuss it later.  
  
“ _I_ meant it as a compliment,” our visitor remarked. I blinked. As Sherlock so often did, she had responded to my thoughts rather than to any utterance. “I truly think your writing is rather brilliant and I look forward to each new tale. I suppose you have little control over your editor.”  
  
I admit it—I would like to think that I am not a conceited man, but I am aware that I am possibly a better writer than I am a doctor, and I did appreciate her comment about my editor.  
  
[There is a note in Sherlock’s hand—the ink is an odd brownish-purple—stating _You are an excellent doctor and I could easily find ten people to say so just on Baker Street; you have saved so many lives and eased the pain of countless others. And despite my sometimes disparaging remarks, for which I am heartily sorry, I also do think that you are an excellent writer._ ]  
  
“Please—have a seat.” I offered her a chair.  
  
“Thank you,” she responded, seating herself gracefully—until I noticed that, once settled, her feet did not quite reach the floor. Like a child, she let them dangle. It was then that I was able to get a better look at her. “Oh, excuse me. I am Mrs. Jeremiah Hayling.”  
  
I bowed and picked up her card (that Mrs. Hudson’s energetic attentions had not dislodged from the salver—this time). That was all it said. May I just say now, in my personal writing, that I do not understand why a married woman must discard her Christian name in all but the most intimate of situations. I had encouraged my wife (during that brief period in which I considered myself married) to use her own name, but she had been horrified by the suggestion. I simply find it confusing. If you were acquainted with a Miss Mary Morstan, how in heaven’s name would you associate her with a Mrs. John Watson?  
  
The name, as presented, stirred something in me; a hint of familiarity that I could not, at that moment, place.  
  
“How do you do, Mrs. Hayling?” I murmured. She bowed her head. She was, as I had noted, in mourning, with her dress and jacket, hat, gloves, boots, all in black. As far as I could see, she wore no jewellery. She was the model of sorrow—or so I thought until my sweet thing pointed out otherwise.  
  
“I do not believe that that particular shade of electric blue quite suits your outfit,” he said to her coolly, gesturing with his pipe.  
  
She glanced down and, to my surprise, laughed softly. “I should have worn a coat instead of a jacket,” she remarked. “But I haven’t a black one.”  
  
“You have attempted to make a good show of your mourning, but it is just for show, is it not?” Sherlock offered, not unkindly.  
  
She laughed softly again. “I suspected that your infamous powers of observation would detect my somewhat—undedicated approach to the whole thing.”  
  
I glanced over at Sherlock, who sighed and explained, “It is apparent that our visitor has had an older dress—more than ten years old—dyed black. Poorly dyed, as it happens.” I followed his eyes down and was a bit shocked to note—yes, there it was, on her skirt—an irregular spot where the brilliant blue to which Sherlock had referred was certainly more evident than the sought-after black. “It is shocking what one gets charged for dying even one garment properly,” he continued, with genuine understanding. “You do not intend to wear mourning at all—at least not when you are at home, or amongst strangers.”  
  
Our visitor bowed her head a bit. “Correct on all counts, Mr. Holmes. It is a bit awkward, you know. Does one begin formal mourning as of the pronouncement, when the death itself is more than two years prior? I have researched it a bit, but no one seems to know the correct thing when one’s husband is declared dead several years after the fact.”  
  
“But you feel some need to comply with the expectations of your neighbours—those who know who you are and your circumstances.”  
  
“Precisely. There were murmurs when I appeared in church and comments at the butcher’s, so I had an old dress dyed—quickly and cheaply, I am afraid—but fortunately had a bonnet that I made over myself, and gloves. I will not—I refuse—have anything to do with crape.”  
  
“Please, tell us what brings you to us today,” Sherlock requested, fidgeting with his tobacco. I noticed that it was actually not his horrid shag, but a frankly lovely mixture that I had gotten for him in an attempt to quite literally lighten the atmosphere of our rooms. His beautiful grey eyes flashed at me; he had noticed that I had noticed.  
  
“It is perhaps a bit convoluted,” she admitted. “Probably some background would be useful. So, deduce away,” she requested rather cheerily. “I do not wish to waste any time telling you what you already know.”  
  
Sherlock eyed her keenly as he got his pipe going. “You are a housekeeper who requires eyeglasses for reading,” he pronounced. She nodded and they both turned to me.  
  
“Glasses,” I repeated. I nodded. I did know that most people who wore them bore at least some evidence on their faces. I looked at our client carefully—she surprised me by obligingly tipping her face towards the weak light coming in the window.  
  
I was looking for the distinct red marks and indentations most often left by eyeglasses, so I was quite frankly shocked to discern that our visitor had a rather large contusion across the bridge of her nose and a bruise under each eye. It was fairly well obscured by what was probably theatrical make-up, but if I could see it now, it must have shone out like a beacon to my darling’s keen eyes. “Oh, my dear,” I blurted out. “Are you in need of my medical services?”  
  
“Thank you, no, Doctor. It will heal.”  
  
“You know that a bit of yellow or green will diminish the appearance of redness,” Sherlock commented casually.  
  
“Yes. I’d run out.” Her answer surprised me, but I did not get a chance to inquire just then, for Mrs. Hudson came in with a tea tray, which she placed carefully on the table I had so hastily cleared.  
  
“Thank you so much,” our visitor chimed sweetly towards her, and to my surprise she received the slightest of smiles and bow of the head. Mrs. Hudson is not exactly impressed by most of our guests—she barely tolerates some of them, to be honest—so this acknowledgement took me aback. I wondered what they had said—what they had exchanged—during those sedately-paced seventeen steps.  
  
I played host, inquiring politely of our diminutive guest and serving her accordingly—strong with milk and one sugar—before handing Sherlock his usual strong-milky-four-sugars; she blinked as I nonchalantly dropped each cube in. I do indulge him far too much.  
  
*  
  
Finally, we were comfortably armed with hot tea. “Go on, then, Mr. Holmes,” our guest encouraged.  
  
“As I have already said, you are a housekeeper who wears glasses for reading. I determined that from your injuries. You were probably shelving books higher than you could comfortably reach when one particularly heavy tome slid from your hand and impacted directly on your eyeglasses.”  
  
“Yes. Precisely.”  
  
“You were previously married but are now, obviously, widowed—although under unusual circumstances.”  
  
I nodded. She had told us as much.  
  
“It was not a happy marriage,” he continued, dropping his voice a bit. I looked over at him in some concern. He rarely hesitated to deliver indecorous information.  
  
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “Please continue.”  
  
“Your husband beat you.”  
  
“Holmes!” I hissed.  
  
“I do not mind. He is correct, but it was a long time ago,” Mrs. Hayling remarked calmly. “But I would like to know how you knew. That is always what fascinates me most.”  
  
“That you are hardly affected by the recent discovery of the death of your husband; your indifference to any of the conventions of mourning, makes it clear that you are not suffering from the news—it was not a happy marriage. That you are familiar with the capabilities of make-up to cover bruises and have actually employed it in such a way implies that at some point you required it for that purpose. You had ‘run out’ of green or yellow, which implies that you used it regularly enough to use it up—and a little goes a long way—but your use of the past tense and that you have not replenished your supply means that you have not needed it more recently. Therefore, you were in a situation in which you were being misused but no longer are, and that you covered it up—it was your husband.”  
  
“Excellent. Yes, I admit to all of that, and I will flesh out my story presently. Please continue your observations. Housekeeper?”  
  
“The books. Clearly you were shelving books that are not yours. You are not a maid. You must be a housekeeper.”  
  
“How did you know that they were not mine?” She sounded a bit indignant.  
  
“I did not mean to imply that you do not have a collection of your own. Obviously you do—someone of your age does not generally require reading glasses. That you have them means that reading is quite important to you. It was the shelves.”  
  
“The shelves?” I interjected.  
  
“Surely our guest is too clever to shelve her _own_ books too high for her to reach easily.”  
  
Both Mrs. Hayling and I laughed and poor Sherlock gave me that pathetic look he has when he’s said something amusing but hasn’t the slightest idea what. “You are correct on all counts,” Mrs. Hayling praised him soothingly.  
  
I sobered quickly when I considered some of his other points.  
  
“I am not here regarding anything to do with my husband,” she interjected, observing my face. “As I said, it was a long time ago, and my life is very different now.”  
  
“Please explain,” Sherlock invited. He placed his cup and saucer on the floor and leaned back, shutting his eyes. This was one feature of my mad man that I actually do not exaggerate—when he is listening to a client, he actually does shut or nearly shut his eyes and steeple his slender hands just under his lovely lower lip. He has explained that it allows him to quite literally focus his concentration on the words being spoken. He is so observant that attempting to listen while he is still receiving information through his eyes is a distraction.  
  
“The house is haunted.”  
  
He opened his eyes again and stared at the lady in some astonishment. “Surely not,” he replied in bewilderment. “I thought that a woman of your intellect would be above believing in spirits.” He paused and peered at her closely. “Ah,” he continued in some relief. “You do not.”  
  
She laughed. “No, of course I do not,” she replied in amusement. “But I cannot come up with a better word for what has been occurring.”  
  
Sherlock leaned back and shut his eyes again, and after a sip of tea, she continued. “As you have determined, I am a housekeeper. I work for—and live in the house of—a very pleasant and well-read elderly gentleman. I have been for some years now—since the disappearance of my husband, as I had to make my own living.  
  
“It has been the most pleasant of arrangements. My employer is a gentle soul, extremely kind, and quite generous. Keeping house for him is no great burden—indeed, it is nothing more or less than what I was doing when I had a husband and house of my own—but now I receive a salary for it, and quite frankly enjoy my gentleman’s extensive library and other generosities. I have not one complaint.  
  
“We live a very quiet life. My employer owns a bookshop. He used to actually run it himself, but as he has grown older he now has a clerk to do that—the actual shop, I mean. He still maintains the accounts and determines what volumes they will carry.  
  
“He has done quite well with his income from the shop and from an inheritance; the house he inherited as well.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“Mayfair.”  
  
“Describe it.”  
  
Our guest delivered a precise and concise description of the house. She seemed to understand instinctively what details to include and what to exclude. Sherlock smiled a bit as he absorbed her litany of doors and large windows; of the proximity to neighbours. Finally, he put up his hand.  
  
“And now, pray describe the circumstances that caused you to seek out my services.”  
  
“There have been disturbances,” she replied, and suddenly her somewhat amused expression became the slightest bit tense.  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and leaned forward in his chair. “In what sense?” he demanded.  
  
“There are odd noises. Signs of things being moved.”  
  
“Describe them.”  
  
Again, our new client launched into a precise description of the disturbances that had driven her to Baker Street. She explained exactly when they had begun—several months prior. How she and her employer both had noted items being moved—primarily papers. How one wakeful night she had heard indistinct noises that could have been the sound of someone in one of the ground floor rooms.  
  
“How often do these disturbances occur?” I asked.  
  
“Erratically. Sometimes a few nights in a row and sometimes not for weeks. Sometimes I awaken in the dead of the night, but I am not certain what has woken me.”  
  
“Well,” my darling murmured. “one can hardly expect a ghost to keep to a schedule.”  
  
We all laughed at this, but sobered quickly. “Clearly there is an intruder who is searching for something; as it seems to involve mainly papers it is probably a piece of correspondence or a legal document of some sort. Obviously it is something both valuable and specific to the intruder—why else would he risk being caught by continuing his searches?”  
  
“Exactly my thinking,” Mrs. Hayling nodded.  
  
“What does your employer say?” he prodded.  
  
“He agrees to some extent, but he cannot fathom what amongst his papers would be so valuable, and to whom.”  
  
“Is he certain?”  
  
She pressed her lips together for an instant before shaking her head. “No, he is not. Although he leads an exemplary life now, I understand that when he was younger—indeed his entire childhood—was spent under a rather dark shadow of scandal and deception.”  
  
“Well, that makes it intriguing,” Sherlock murmured. “Is he willing to speak to me about it?”  
  
“Yes. He is not ashamed of anything—he did nothing himself, you see, except to be born under rather… improper circumstances, and one can hardly be blamed for that.”  
  
I do not think that anyone but myself, who knows his face and his moods so intimately, would have caught the slight hardening of his expression at this. “So you and he both believe it is someone from his past searching for something—perhaps something that the intruder believes could embarrass or censure him? Blackmail?”  
  
“That is most likely, yes,” she agreed.  
  
“How is the devil gaining entry?” I asked.  
  
“That I have not been able to determine. That is really what is so alarming. Neither of us is concerned about him being blackmailed, since there is nothing that could possibly be found that could be used for that purpose. My concern is that there is an intruder in the house. What if one night my dear gentleman was wakeful, and downstairs in his study, and this person comes upon him? I am afraid for his safety, and for my own.”  
  
“Of course you are!” I instantly assured her. “This seems rather straightforward, Holmes,” I added. “Surely it would be a simple matter to ensconce ourselves in the gentleman’s study one night and capture him in the act.”  
  
“Except that it is impossible to say when he will appear next,” our client pointed out.  
  
“I need to see the house,” Sherlock interjected.  
  
“Of course,” she nodded. “Could you come now? We would be delighted to have you for supper.”  
  
“I do not see why not,” he agreed. “But first, I often employ disguises in my investigations,” he remarked. I looked at him in bemusement. What did that have to do with the case?  
  
“As the talented doctor has noted on more than one occasion,” our client responded, directing her comment at me.  
  
“I should like to cover your bruises more thoroughly, if that would be acceptable. Come with me and I shall put it right.” I was completely shocked as my darling rose and strode towards his bedroom.  
  
“Sh… Holmes!” I cried in genuine outrage. He hesitated uncharacteristically and glanced at me. I gave him a questioning glare; as he so often did, he gazed back at me with a look of confusion that meant that he had no idea why I so angry.  
  
Our guest turned simultaneously and gave me a gentle smile. “Oh, Doctor,” she murmured, “do you think that my virtue is even slightly in danger? I am not a bit concerned—and I am trusting your discretion otherwise, am I not?”  
  
I admit that I stared after them in a daze, my mouth open, as Sherlock Holmes walked calmly into his bedroom—and our guest followed him confidently—as his exclusive company.  
  
I debated. Should I follow? Or would that be horribly insulting, implying, as it would, that I did not trust my friend nor our guest? I could hear their voices but could not discern specific words.  
  
I made up my mind.  
  
*  
  
They emerged not ten minutes later; during that interim I had gone downstairs to return the tea tray and let Mrs. Hudson know we would not be at home that evening.  
  
Yes, I did. I left them alone in Sherlock’s bedroom. What our guest had noted was entirely correct—her virtue was most certainly safe. I knew that. Sherlock knew that. Even Mrs. Hudson knew that by then. But it was still inappropriate. What had she seen that made her so fearless?  
  
“Does the wound on our visitor’s nose appear much diminished?” Sherlock cried in triumph, gesturing proudly at her delicate features—now, as she had removed her hat, fully revealed. I admit, I gazed rather intently at her. Yes, the appearance of the red mark across the bridge of her nose, and the accompanying discolouration around her eyes, was greatly diminished, and none but the keenest eye would have noticed that this was due to the theatrical make-up, skilfully applied.  
  
“Yes, you have done an excellent job,” I praised, and I admit that I got the slightest bit distracted—Sherlock did respond so beautifully to compliments.  
  
“I primarily wish for my employer not to see,” she explained. “He would be so upset. I do not care one whit what anyone else thinks.”  
  
“Your employer seems like the kindliest of souls and I look forward to meeting him,” I commented as I willed my eagerness for my sweetheart to abate.  
  
“Then we should go.” She resettled her hat upon her head.  
  
*  
  
The house in Mayfair was, indeed, quite impressive. It was Georgian in style, elegant and clean of line. We had taken a cab—the three of us—and now Mrs. Hayling withdrew a formidable-looking key from her handbag and let us in through the front door.  
  
“You bolt all the doors from the inside at night,” Sherlock remarked, more as a statement than a question.  
  
“Of course. And lock all the windows.”  
  
“Hum,” he sighed, glancing back at the impressive bolt. “Is your employer at home now?”  
  
“Yes. He and I were both hoping that I could persuade you to come visit tonight. Mr. Fleming!” she called out.  
  
“In the library,” came a dignified voice.  
  
She led the way into a room that was, indeed, a library. Every wall surface, from floor to ceiling, was encased in bookcases. There was a small stool in one corner to assist in the retrieval of the tomes on the highest shelves, but I could see that even with its aid, the diminutive housekeeper would indeed be reaching over her head to shelve anything there.  
  
“Ah! Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson.” An elderly gentleman with a kind but intelligent expression rose from a leather chair behind a desk and walked slowly around it, his hand outreached in welcome.  
  
“You are a great admirer of Mr. Dickens,” Sherlock remarked, his eyes sweeping across the myriad of book spines. “I detect no fewer than three copies of _David Copperfield._ ”  
  
“I am indeed,” he nodded, inviting us to take seats. “I know there is no reason to have multiple copies of his works, and yet…”  
  
“He gives them away,” Mrs. Hayling explained affectionately. “Mr. Fleming is a most generous man, particularly with his books.”  
  
“I presume that was not your habit in your bookshop,” I chuckled. “That is not a wise business practice.”  
  
“Ah… no. Not often, anyway. Please have a seat.” He seated himself on a large, soft chair.  
  
I sat on the horsehair sofa gingerly. I have never found them to be comfortable, particularly for my damaged leg. Sherlock glanced at me in concern. I shook my head; I would be all right. He did not sit at all, instead pacing across the room during the conversation which followed.  
  
“I will explain as concisely as I can,” our host began as Mrs. Hayling slipped from the room, presumably to prepare supper. “I was born under less-than-ideal circumstances. May I be completely candid?” I nodded; Sherlock was walking slowly along the bookcases, trailing his eyes and his nervous fingers across the many spines. “Very well. To put it simply, I was conceived out of wedlock. My mother was very innocent, and she had a liaison with a man who was already—albeit unhappily and by arrangement only—married. He and his wife were already separated, in fact, and their son—my half-brother—was nearly grown. When she… well, when it was apparent what their indiscretion had produced… he changed his will so that my mother and I, and not his devious other son, would inherit his fortune. He then died and his new will was destroyed.  
  
“Thus I was born in abject poverty and deprivation, and my dear mother did not survive the experience.”  
  
I glanced at Sherlock; yes, he was listening and yes he had stiffened slightly at this information.  
  
“I apologise for having to share such unpleasant information,” Mr. Fleming continued, noting our exchange. “I forget sometimes that my rather shocking history can be offensive to those of certain sensibilities.”  
  
“Please, go on,” Sherlock encouraged somewhat tightly. “I presume that this information has bearing upon your case.”  
  
“Direct bearing, yes. Shall I ring for some port?” Without waiting for a reply, he rose and grasped the bell-pull, tugging on it gently. Whilst we awaited the reappearance of the intrepid housekeeper, he leaned against the mantle and continued his story. “The fact is that my half-brother was an unscrupulous, foul, devious creature who, with his attempts to obscure the facts of my father’s intentions towards myself and my mother, made my life an absolute misery.  
  
“However, I was fortunate—more than fortunate—to be rescued from my life of torture by a friend of my father’s. He knew the entire story—my mother’s disgrace, my step-brother’s foul plots—and still welcomed me as a son to this very house. Since that time I have enjoyed all the privileges that his good name and fortune had bestowed upon him, in addition to that which I inherited from my father.”  
  
“How much older was your half-brother?” Sherlock interjected.  
  
“Many years. He was a man before I was even born.”  
  
“So he is not living now, I take it?”  
  
“No,” our host chuckled. “I am an old man; if he were alive he would be ancient.”  
  
“Do you think that someone else has recently stumbled upon this private information—about your history—and decided that it would be profitable to expose some proof of it?” I inquired.  
  
“That is the only circumstance I can conceive that would explain the situation,” he affirmed. “I have alluded to the untoward acts of my half-brother. However, what I have not explained is that, despite his horrid behaviour, I did share our father’s fortune with him.”  
  
“That was generous,” I remarked.  
  
“I had so greatly benefitted by generosity, how could I possibly not respond in kind?”  
  
I considered this for a bit. If I had found myself in those circumstances, would I respond in such a noble and unselfish way?  
  
[Sherlock has written a note sideway along the margin of the manuscript: _Of course you would. You are one of the most generous and unselfish men I have ever met._ ]  
  
“So if your half-brother received half of your father’s fortune and is now deceased, do you truly believe that these intrusions upon your household are connected?”  
  
He nodded a bit sadly. “Indeed, it is a possibility. I myself have never been married. I have no children. I do not know if that is true of my half-brother. In my mind, it is entirely possible that a descendent of his feels that his branch of the family has been slighted and intends to rectify the situation.”  
  
“I can see how that would be a possibility,” I agreed.  
  
“It is also the only aspect of my life that offers the slightest risk of unscrupulous behaviour. Other than that, my life is, to be blunt, rather bland. I run my shop and read my books. I attend church and charitable events. I occasionally play whist with a few friends.”  
  
“What about your business?”  
  
“My bookshop has never offered a hint of anything untoward. My clerk, Albert Brookstone, who now handles the day-to-day work behind the counter, has been with me for… nine years now, and the most exciting thing that happens to him seems to be welcoming yet another child into the world. I pay him well and ensure that he is happy at his job, as I do with Mrs. Hayling. Indeed, not having children of my own, I feel quite paternal towards both of them, and consider Mr. Brookstone’s children as I would my own grandchildren.”  
  
“Are they in your own will?” Sherlock demanded bluntly.  
  
“Holmes,” I hissed, but our host smiled.  
  
“It’s a fair question, Doctor,” he remarked, “and yes, they are indeed. My fortune will be divided amongst several charities and the two of them. They both know and have been openly grateful about the terms.”  
  
“And even if they did not, and wished to destroy or replace your will, neither of them would need the subterfuge of ‘haunting’ your home to have access to your papers,” my companion murmured.  
  
“Precisely. Both of them have ready access to everything—and my will has been properly witnessed by others outside of my happy family. I doubt that anyone could be persuaded to believe that I had changed it.”  
  
“So if there is nothing to find,” I demanded. “why does someone still search?”  
  
“It does not matter that there is nothing,” Sherlock declared emphatically, making both of us startle a bit. “Clearly the _intruder_ believes that there is something of value under this roof, and it is precious enough to him to warrant his illicit activities. This makes me quite uneasy for your safety,” he admitted. “Someone so bold as to repeatedly break into a house is undoubtedly desperate enough that he could easily harm anyone who should come upon him in the night.”  
  
“Yes,” Mrs. Hayling, agreed, coming in with a tray on which there was a decanter and three glasses. “That is precisely why neither of us has attempted to confront the rogue.”  
  
“Very wise,” I nodded, accepting a glass of port.  
  
“So!” Sherlock exclaimed, shaking his head at the glass offered to him. “We must attack this problem from two directions at once. We must determine how the intruder is gaining entry, and we must discover who he is and what he is seeking.”  
  
*  
  
The housekeeper served up a fine supper, and our host and I tucked in readily. Sherlock, of course, chose not to eat anything, instead pacing about the dining room.  
  
I had been a bit surprised that Mrs. Hayling had joined us at the table, and my face must have betrayed my feelings, as Mr. Fleming chuckled. “You must remember, Doctor Watson, that I consider Nancy here as my own daughter.”  
  
“Ah,” I replied rather idiotically. I reproach myself now for what I realise was a snobbish reaction.  
  
“Perhaps that is the scandal that someone wishes to unveil,” she responded thoughtfully. “Perhaps someone suspects that I am in actuality your daughter from some illicit rendezvous nearly thirty years in the past and seeks proof?”  
  
Our host laughed so heartily at this I was concerned that he would choke, but he took a sip of his wine and calmed himself, wiping his eyes with his napkin. “That is entirely possible, my dear, in which case we really must board up the house thoroughly—for our intruder will have to continue searching forever to find what does not exist.”  
  
She had joined in his laughter, and now she delicately wiped her lips, trying to hide the smile that still hovered there.  
  
“So, no chance of any claims to an inheritance at all from progeny of your own?” Sherlock prodded, momentarily standing still behind the chair that he should have been seated in before he whirled away again.  
  
“None at all,” Mr. Fleming declared with finality. “You have my word.”  
  
“Still…” the great detective murmured moodily, his brow furrowed in concentration.  
  
I ignored him and continued enjoying my meal. It was a roast pheasant done with a lovely sauce.  
  
*  
  
We had completed our meal and retired to the study, where Mr. Fleming indicated that we were welcome to smoke. That was something he did not allow in his library, he explained—the smoke and open flame were natural enemies to his precious volumes.  
  
Sherlock immediately took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and once he had it lit, he happily surrounded himself with a small cloud of smoke, sighing in relief. “Shall we return to our conundrum?” he requested a bit testily, having resented the interruption of sustenance. He can be quite like a sulky child at times; I would admonish him upon our return home.  
  
“Of course,” the elderly gentleman, who was enjoying a cigar and another glass of port (as was I; he had offered and I had accepted), responded.  
  
“We have established that your ‘ghost’ is most likely someone possibly related to you in some fashion who is seeking proof of that connection, or perhaps your will, in an attempt to secure an inheritance.”  
  
“That seems the most likely explanation,” he agreed.  
  
“Very well. Discovering the identity of that person will perhaps be a bit of a challenge. What were the circumstances of your half-brother’s demise?”  
  
The tale our host shared was a grim one; after he had shared their father’s fortune with the duplicitous man, the latter had squandered the money and had died, penniless and alone, in prison. No, he hadn’t any will—it seemed a moot point then to have one drawn up, for even when he most likely realised that he was on the verge of death, there was nothing left to inherit. Or perhaps it was because there already was a will, and discovering that would reveal the existence of an unknown wife or heirs.  
  
“Hum,” Sherlock remarked. “That research must wait until morning. Watson, what was the second part of our puzzle?”  
  
“How the scoundrel is gaining entry.”  
  
“Precisely. Now, if you have finished your cigar, shall we begin our examination of this fine home?”  
  
*  
  
The next few hours were spent in a vigorous examination of the interior of the house. No, Mrs. Hayling had never seen any incriminating dirt or footprints (and based on the cleanliness of the entire home, she most certainly would have noticed such a thing). Neither of them had heard anything like breaking wood or glass. She had tried all the doors and windows from without, but they were secure.  
  
The rest of this encounter was a fairly classic Sherlock Holmes investigation, as I pen them—throwing himself down with his magnifying glass (and I realise now that I write as if he had only one—the truth is that he owns at least ten at any one time and has the most irritating habit of losing them), crawling about, peering into corners with the aid of a lamp, tapping on walls. I followed, watching him with affection and pride. I also was not objecting to some of his more suggestive poses, stretched out along the floor and staring up at the ceiling, wondering if there was access via the attic. Sherlock, supine and rapt—I realised that I was getting distracted and, with a sigh, set my mind to jotting down notes as he required.  
  
Finally, both the older gentleman and the housekeeper began to display signs of fatigue. The hour was quite late, I realised.  
  
“Holmes,” I suggested. “Perhaps we should take our leave now.”  
  
“What?” He looked at me somewhat dazedly, clearly completely unaware of the hour. “Oh, yes. Of course. I will continue my investigations and shall contact you when I have more information,” he assured them.  
  
Soon we were on our way and then back in our comfortable rooms. I could not persuade my darling to undress or come to bed, and once he threw himself upon the floor amongst a pile of cushions, armed with his briar pipe and shag, I gave up and withdrew. I slept alone in my own bed that night.  
  
By morning the room was thick with smoke, and the first thing I did was to open the windows. There was no sign of Sherlock. I rang and Mrs. Hudson ascended.  
  
“He’s gone out,” she reported before I could even ask. “About an hour ago. He said not to disturb you. No, he did not have breakfast and no, he did not say where he was going.”  
  
I sighed. I did not like it one bit when he went off on his own like that, but there was nothing I could do other than air out the room, dress, and have my coffee.  
  
*  
  
He returned about three o’clock in the afternoon. I could tell at a glance that his investigations had proved fruitless. He was agitated and cross with me, particularly when I tried to convince him that he needed to eat something.  
  
“I need to search the house—the exterior of the house—now,” he declared instead. “Get your coat on.”  
  
We returned to the lovely Mayfair neighbourhood and rang the bell. Mrs. Hayling did not seem a bit surprised to see us. “Have you learned anything?” she inquired eagerly. I noted that she was wearing a gown in a lovely shade of scarlet that would, if she stepped outdoors, cause a great number of comments.  
  
“I am afraid not,” he admitted with chagrin. “I can search outside the house now, though, in the daylight.”  
  
And off he went.  
  
I was treated to some of the most amazing calisthenics upon the part of my limber darling that I have ever witnessed. I assisted in various ways as he attempted, quite literally, to break into the house after Mrs. Hayling barred it as she assured us she did each evening.  
  
Mr. Fleming, who had been in his room resting, joined us and we gathered in the study, discussing not just the case but various topics. Every so often we would observe his head as he strode past the windows, his eyes glued to the ground as he searched for signs of entry.  
  
Mrs. Hayling had just poured tea when, with no warning whatsoever, he appeared in the study. “Goodness!” she exclaimed, nearly dropping the teapot.  
  
“You found a way in!” I exclaimed, dumbfounded.  
  
“Obviously,” he retorted mildly. “Or did you think that I was a ghost?”  
  
“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Hayling exclaimed. “You do tease. Show us how you did it.”  
  
With alacrity, he demonstrated: there was a door that led into the butler’s pantry—an invisible door. It had been not just boarded up but plastered and painted over, and a large cabinet filled with large tureens and other silver pieces placed in front of it.  
  
“No one could possibly have gotten in that way,” Mrs. Hayling remarked. “We just had the door sealed up a few months ago, and the case in front of it must weigh hundreds of pounds.”  
  
With a dramatic flourish, the detective reached out one hand and— _swung the entire cabinet out into the garden!_  
  
It glided soundlessly; the hinges were well lubricated.  
  
“That is… fantastic,” Mr. Fleming whispered in awe. “I never in a million years would have imagined this. How on earth did you find it?”  
  
“Simple enough once I had daylight. The flowers and plants on the outside of the door are clearly more newly planted than any of the others that border that wall, and some of them are broken in a way that indicated that something had swung out over them. I could not detect any footprints—it has been several weeks since your last intrusion and it is clear that someone has been tending to the flowerbed in the interim—but once I noticed the path of the damage, it was fairly simple to spot the hinges hidden by a clever bit of trim.”  
  
He grinned at me and I smiled back and nodded. He had been very clever and wanted to be rewarded later on, and of course I would be delighted to do so.  
  
Mrs. Hayling examined the hidden door intently from both inside and out, her mouth tight. “This is horrifying,” she stated. “We did just have this door closed up. We hadn’t used it in ages and it was causing a draft in the pantry.”  
  
“How recently?” Sherlock demanded.  
  
She considered for a bit. “Several months ago,” she offered.  
  
“How did you get the work done?” my maniac demanded brusquely.  
  
“We had been considering having it done for a while, and I had been asking around the neighbourhood for the name of a reliable carpenter. Finally, one day a man came to the kitchen door and said that he was willing and able to do the work and that Mrs. Miller—she’s the greengrocer’s wife—would be ready to supply a reference.  
  
“I showed him the work I proposed and he gave me a price. I asked Mrs. Miller the next day and she said that yes, he was reliable. He started the day after that.  
  
“Obviously I should have pressed for more references,” she ended dryly.  
  
We all returned to the study, making ourselves comfortable except for Sherlock, who was far too excited to sit down.  
  
“So the entire thing was planned—someone went to rather elaborate ends to gain unnoticed access,” Mr. Fleming mused. “Common burglars do that, you know. They often gain access to a household by posing as a tradesman, so they can plan their entry at a later time, and in some cases—as it was here—even creating that access themselves.”  
  
“But I still cannot fathom who,” my detective said. “I spent the better part of the morning and this afternoon researching what I could of your half-brother, and there was absolutely no evidence of an heir who might be attempting to achieve some financial gain.”  
  
I did not wish to know how he had pursued that particular line of inquiry, especially after hearing about the decidedly unsavoury background of the man. We all pondered this silently for a moment.  
  
“I think another conversation with the greengrocer’s wife is in order,” Sherlock commented to our hostess.  
  
“Clearly,” she remarked. “Do you suppose she had something to do with it?”  
  
“With arranging for a tradesman to gain entry to your home? Clearly, yes. There might have been a promise of some financial reward for her, or some other benefit that we can only imagine.”  
  
“I have never particularly liked her,” Mrs. Hayling remarked, and I had to smile at the disgust in her tone. “She is the one who started all the fuss about me not wearing widow’s weeds after the discovery of my husband’s remains.” She paused and considered something. “Now that I think about it,” she murmured, almost to herself, “she seemed quite taken with the whole of my personal circumstances. She was always—since I have arrived here, four years ago—asking me questions about my husband, and what I thought had happened to him. Where did I think he was? What had I done with his belongings? I thought she was just being tactless and inquisitive, but could it be more? Could she somehow have arranged for that carpenter to build that… door… so she could creep in herself?”  
  
Sherlock looked at her thoughtfully.  
  
“It was quite the engineering feat,” I remarked, “getting that large case to swing so silently and easily, without disturbing the contents of the shelves.”  
  
Sherlock suddenly turned his gaze on me, rapt. “John!” he exclaimed, “That’s _it_! As always, you have illuminated the path that leads to the truth.”  
  
All of us stared at him in alarm.  
  
“ _Doctor,_ ” he stated firmly, looking directly at me (clearly aware of his blunder in using my Christian name), “do you recall learning about a Mr. Jeremiah Hayling?”  
  
As I have remarked, the name was vaguely familiar to me, but I could not immediately place it. “Was he involved in a case?” I asked.  
  
“In a somewhat oblique way, yes, but I am not surprised that he does not exactly spring to mind. Mrs. Hayling, I suspect that you have somewhere safely tucked away a certain newspaper advertisement?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” the intrepid housekeeper replied. “It is actually right here.” She walked over to a shelf in the study that held several commonplace books of the type that Sherlock himself used to collect clippings. She brought one over to us and opened it, pointing to something pasted on one of the pages.  
  
“How neat your cuts are, my dear,” Sherlock praised, and I had to resist the urge to cuff the back of his head for insolence at his obscure but pointed remark regarding my own efforts at organising his clippings.  
  
I frowned at him and then read it aloud: “ _’Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been heard of since.’_ Of course!” I cried. “‘The Engineer’s Thumb’!”  
  
“Recently… your husband disappeared a year before we were even involved in that case, but has just recently been discovered?” I asked for clarity.  
  
“Fairly recently, yes.”  
  
“But surely after the authorities were apprised of the nefarious and illegal activities of the inhabitants of that household outside of Reading…”  
  
“Apparently it was not a priority for the authorities—and it was not for me, either, I admit. I did not know anything about what occurred in Reading at all, including your involvement, until I read your story. I recognised my advertisement, of course, even if you had to change the name.”  
  
(I must point out now that yes, I did change the names, as I usually do, and that even here in my private papers I have maintained that particular subterfuge.)  
  
“So your husband was the unfortunate engineer who disappeared a year before the harrowing adventures of Mr. Victor Hatherley.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“That was now…”  
  
“Just over four years ago.”  
  
“Did you suspect that he had died?” I asked.  
  
“Yes. It was the only explanation, really. He had no reason nor desire to leave his work, his friends at the pub… even myself.”  
  
“But not knowing the circumstances under which he had taken that job, you had absolutely nothing to go on.”  
  
“Exactly. No one had seen him leave, or speaking to a stranger, or anything of that nature. He stopped at the pub before supper, as was his habit. His friends said that he seemed quite well when he headed out, on his own. They saw no one nor anything suspicious. He simply stepped out onto the pavement and disappeared.”  
  
“He must have been accosted on his way home,” I mused.  
  
“That is what I presume, but of course four years ago no one had any idea of where to start searching beyond his usual haunts.” She made a slight face at her own choice of words.  
  
“So it was not until you saw my somewhat fantastic story of that unfortunate engineer that you were able to do more.”  
  
“Precisely. As soon as I realised what had happened—it was an odd sensation, seeing my advertisement printed in the magazine, and I admit that as I read your tale in its entirety, I might have felt a bit ill.”  
  
“That is hardly surprising,” I assured her. “You alerted the authorities?”  
  
“Yes. Immediately. I realised that if I recognised the advertisement, there would be other readers who recalled it, and it would be unseemly if I had not immediately sought out a resolution.”  
  
“The authorities did not respond with alacrity,” Sherlock interjected.  
  
“No, they did not. As I did, so did they presume that my supposition was correct, and there was no urgent need to locate him. The issue then was to discover the location of the misadventure. I am aware, of course, that you change the names of some locations, but you included a great deal of detail that allowed me to discover a location that matched your description exactly.”  
  
“You did this on your own?” Sherlock gazed at her in admiration.  
  
“Yes. It was simple enough once I applied your own methods, Mr. Holmes,” she responded keenly.  
  
“My methods?”  
  
“As you have noted, my employer has an extensive library. I was able to utilise several atlases and other references, particularly those pertaining to the makeup of the soil, and I searched until I found a geographic location that seemed to fit. I set out at once. Of course I did not expect everything to be exactly as you had described it; time has passed, after all, and I know that you change some details. But enough of the area appeared exactly as you had written—you do describe things so well—that I was able to locate exactly where it had all occurred. Armed with that information, I was finally able to receive some attention from the authorities, and it was not very hard once they started actually looking to find—well, what remained of him. Not very long after, I was called to identify him.”  
  
“Oh! How horrible,” I commented, picturing vividly the stages of decomposition of a human body in a shallow grave.  
  
“It was—it was what it was. I easily identified him. He had a distinct twisted tooth; I would know it anywhere.”  
  
“So, he was officially declared deceased,” I confirmed.  
  
“Yes—at last. I always suspected that he was, but to be honest it was a relief to have confirmation. And that was when all the fuss started about my clothing, and then those sounds in the night.”  
  
“I understand your reticence regarding public mourning,” I told her, firmly. Why in heaven’s name should she wear widow’s weeds for a man who had abused her and who had already been out of her life for so many years?  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Did your husband have any sisters or brothers?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Yes. Why do you ask…” Her eyes opened wide and she put a hand to her mouth. “Oh! Of course. How could I have been so blind?”  
  
Sherlock smiled keenly, and I admit that not just my heart leapt at the sight. It had been more than a few days, and I longed to feel him against me. I prayed for a rapid conclusion to the case. “So it is…?” he prompted.  
  
“My brother-in-law Rufus,” she stated firmly.  
  
“Why are you so certain?” I asked. I did not disbelieve her; I wanted to hear her story.  
  
“He is a rogue and a liar and the most contemptible person with whom I have ever had personal acquaintance,” she stated firmly.  
  
Sherlock laughed quietly. “You seem quite decisive about that,” he murmured.  
  
“Oh, I most certainly am,” she declared. “My husband was not… the kindest person, but at least he was quite good at his job and actually enjoyed working. His brother, on the other hand, has spent his entire life involved in one swindle after another. He is perfectly capable of honest work—he is trained as a builder—but refuses to apply himself. Even Jeremiah was disgusted by him.”  
  
“Did they associate with one another often?” I asked.  
  
“Yes. They did not see eye-to-eye on anything except a drink—more than one drink—a great deal more, and they were frequently at the pub together.” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “My husband was cruel to me when in his cups, but otherwise would become quite jovial. Rufus, however, has a wicked, terrible temper and is widely known as a belligerent and cruel man who uses his fists when his double-talking fails him.”  
  
“After the disappearance of Mr. Hayling, were you bothered overmuch by your brother-in-law?” Sherlock interjected.  
  
“I did not see him more than once.”  
  
“When was that?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“I was preparing to take the job with Mr. Fleming. My brother-in-law came to my little place without warning. I did not have a great deal to take with me, but it was apparent that I was planning my exodus.”  
  
“What did he say?”  
  
“He… he wondered what his brother would do ‘when’ he reappeared and I was gone from our home.”  
  
“And your response?”  
  
“Holmes,” I hissed. He was asking quite intimate questions.  
  
“It is fine, Doctor,” she assured me. “I asked him, quite frankly, if he really thought that his brother was going to reappear. At that point it had been…” she paused and calculated something in her head before continuing. “It had been four months, and my money had run out. It was rather startling to experience how much further the housekeeping money went when there was no one to spend it on tobacco and drink,” she added rather bitterly. “But my resources had dwindled to nothing. My own family—my parents are still living and I have three sisters—do not have anything to spare, and I would not ever ask for assistance. So I had to find a position, and to move from our home, and I honestly did not think that he would ever come back.”  
  
“Would your brother-in-law benefit from his brother’s death?” I wondered.  
  
“No more than I, as far as I know. I paid off his few debts, but beyond that, there was nothing for him or anyone else, including myself.”  
  
“Does your brother-in-law know that?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“I have no idea. As I have explained, we were not exactly intimate.”  
  
Sherlock sank back and considered everything for a few minutes. “Perhaps he thinks there is either money or a life insurance policy,” he murmured, more to himself than to us.  
  
“Life insurance?” I echoed. “Oh, of course!”  
  
“Oh! You mean that he thinks—quite mistakenly—that there is money or will be shortly—now that Jeremiah is confirmed to be deceased?”  
  
“Does this seem like something he would do?” Sherlock demanded.  
  
“It does sound like something that he would think—and if he believed there to be an insurance policy he would most assuredly make the leap into believing that he rather than I was entitled to the payment. He—my husband’s entire family, actually—never took very well to the idea that he had married me. But is he really… breaking into the house in the dead of night?” She shuddered in horror at the idea. It was the only time during the entire case that she showed the least bit of fear. “What if one of had come across him? I know him far too well. Mr. Holmes, if either Mr. Fleming or myself had interrupted one of his nocturnal visits, I can _assure_ you that we would be dead. Please, how can we have him charged, and how can we ensure my dear gentleman’s safety?”  
  
“We must catch him red-handed or there will probably not be much to put before the magistrate,” Sherlock commented calmly. “I have an idea of how to do that. You must do your part, and I know that you will do so capably. We will keep your employer and you safe from harm. I promise,” he stated decisively, and the tone of his voice—so firm and clear—reassured me. And stimulated me. I adored it when he was so firm and protective.  
  
Sherlock outlined his plan for catching the loathsome man and our companion agreed with alacrity.  
  
*  
  
The next night, I found myself, as I had done before, pressed comfortably against my lean love. We were enrobed in darkness and silence as we stood vigil in the pantry of the disturbed household in Mayfair. Mr. Fleming had gone to a hotel for the night—Mrs. Hayling had begged him to, for his own safety, and Sherlock and I had heartily agreed. Mrs. Hayling was in her bedroom but most assuredly not asleep. She had extinguished her light just as she had gone through her usual routine of locking the house up tightly—it was imperative that all appear as normal—so she sat quietly on her bed, waiting.  
  
Sherlock had had a rather brilliant plan—of course he had—and he had outlined it as we sat in the comfortable study with the commonplace book still open on the table, the tell-tale newspaper cutting that had exposed all in view.  
  
She was, the next day, to visit the greengrocer, and to engage Mrs. Miller in conversation. She was to wear her (mock) widow’s weeds, as she did now in the neighbourhood, and to discuss openly the plans that her employer had for immediately relocating to the country. She would make a great fuss about how she had been so hurriedly packing, and how she had a great number of papers to box up before the labourers arrived two days hence to take away the bulk of the furniture and things.  
  
In other words, she was broadcasting the fact that, very shortly, all of the papers in the house would be boxed up and taken away.  
  
If Sherlock was correct [a note in the detective’s hand declares that _I am always correct_ ], this would draw out the intruder. He would not be able to resist one last chance to search for whatever it was that he sought.  
  
And so now Mrs. Hayling was on the floor above us (during his inspection of the house we had discovered that Mrs. Hayling did not keep a room in the servants’ quarters, but instead had the second-best bedroom on the first floor) and we were standing together in the dark. I could feel every inch of him against me as I leaned back. His lips brushed my ear as he whispered, “I do so enjoy this bit.” I felt a rush of warmth throughout my body that eventually settled in one particular region and, I discovered as I pressed back and he pressed forward, it was something that he was apparently experiencing as well.  
  
I wanted nothing more than to catch the intruder in the act, ascertain that it was, indeed, the horrible and nefarious brother-in-law of the admirable Mrs. Hayling, and then to possibly beat him with whatever was handy as payment for alternately ignoring and terrorising his brother’s brave wife.  
  
I wanted that to happen quickly, and then I wanted to go home and pull all of Sherlock’s clothing off and to push him back onto the bed and to throw myself over him and to thrust…  
  
Sometimes waiting with him in the dark at a crime scene can be rather a strain. But that night it was just the two of us and I admit here that eventually I turned around so I was pressed up against him and it was obvious that both of us were stimulated and I kissed him and he kissed back and for a while the entire universe consisted of just us. And then there was a noise…  
  
*  
  
“John, the light!” I was already in the process of opening the bulls-eye lantern, which we had carefully placed to illuminate the concealed opening that led into the pantry. “Catch him!”  
  
There are two things that I find more stimulating than is possibly decent. One is watching my darling as he does—well, anything—and the other is throwing my full weight onto a criminal, bringing him down with a grunt. Sherlock is, of course, more than capable of doing so himself, and I do admire his technique, but there is a satisfaction I gain from engaging in the act myself that should not but does make me breathless and flushed and eager.  
  
Sherlock is very much aware of this and takes advantage as often as he can.  
  
This particular body was rather large and rather dense and made a most satisfying sound as it hit the ground.  
  
*  
  
What had been occurring was unpleasant and unsettling and had some rather horrific implications. Rufus Hayling, the younger brother by five years of the deceased Jeremiah, had indeed organised the entire situation. He had struck up an acquaintance (it was more than that, our client observed) with Mrs. Miller, who he set to spy on his sister-in-law in her new position and home. He had, upon hearing that his brother was actually deceased, acted upon the information that she had been inquiring about the services of a carpenter. He had arranged for a crony—a former co-worker when he was in the habit of actually building homes—to be presented as a reliable tradesman, and had designed the carefully-concealed hidden portal himself (he apparently shared some of his brother’s engineering skills). It was he who had been sneaking into the house in the dead of night and searching for the non-existent life insurance policy or perhaps the money itself. (“Why he would think that Mrs. Hayling would keep it all here instead of in a bank, I cannot fathom,” remarked her employer, Mr. Fleming. “Because he is an idiot,” was the rather dry reply on Sherlock’s part, and we all chuckled at the obvious truth of his statement.)  
  
In addition to committing his heinous if ill-conceived crime, Mrs. Hayling’s brother-in-law also proved to be an unpleasant braggart and a liar. Even caught as he was red-handed, he remained arrogant and foolhardy, attempting unsuccessfully to break our iron hold on him whilst steadfastly (and ludicrously considering the circumstances) proclaiming his innocence. I have never actually wanted to hit someone quite so much. He was charged with housebreaking and received a sentence of six months of hard labour. I was disappointed at that and concerned for the safety of our clients.  
  
“We are going away,” Mrs. Hayling supplied in a soft voice. “My employer—my dear father in spirit—is selling his shop to Mr. Brookstone, his clerk, and we are moving to the country. I look forward to it—no one will know who I am there.”  
  
“How will you ensure that?” I inquired. We were having luncheon at a hotel as a celebration—Mr. Fleming and Mrs. Hayling and I—and speaking quietly about their plans. Sherlock had declined the invitation, and it was one of those days that I knew not to argue with him, instead kissing him gently before leaving him lying on the sofa contemplating whatever it was that intriguing his brilliant mind.  
  
“We are both changing our names, and Mr. Fleming—well, he will be my father-in-law, and I will be his devoted daughter by marriage, and we will both cherish the memory of his deceased son as I take care of him and he takes care of me.”  
  
I was a bit taken aback by this blatant subterfuge, but then I regained my composure. “That is an excellent plan,” I praised, because it was. From the first I had had the sense that the relationship between the two was more like a father and daughter than anything else.  
  
“You see, Doctor Watson, this way I will finally have—in a way—a son, and of course a dear daughter upon whom I can bestow my affection. I am a wealthy man. I can afford and will happily hire a staff for our new home so that my beloved Nancy can read her books and we can go to church and for walks in the garden.”  
  
“We have already decided the Christian name of my ‘husband’,” she remarked sweetly.  
  
“Please tell me.”  
  
“He will be John.”  
  
I blushed. I admit it. “But why not Sherlock?” I managed to stammer.  
  
“Well, to be honest, with your published stories, that Christian name has become entirely associated with your… with him.” She looked at me closely; there was no wavering.  
  
She knew.  
  
And she seemed fine with it.  
  
And then it struck me, and I was embarrassed for not realising it sooner. No chance of having progeny— _absolutely_ sure. Ah. So Mr. Fleming had never—oh, I understood now.  
  
“But tell me—do you think that the surname of Holmes is common enough—no one would think anything of that, would they?”  
  
I told her that no, it should not cause any such comment, and her imaginary husband now bore both of our names.  
  
*  
  
I ascended the seventeen steps. It was late afternoon. I entered our rooms quietly, and was delighted to find my sweetheart smiling at me, his arms open.  
  
“Come and celebrate with me,” he requested, and I was overjoyed to comply.  
  
Compliance meant: Us departing from the sitting room (I insisted on banking the fire and he huffily turned down the gas) into—whichever room we had chosen. For that afternoon it happened to be mine, but regardless, moving to a bedroom meant divesting garments. I adored my Sherlock bare.  
  
Slender and bare and… eager.  
  
That afternoon was no exception.  
  
*  
  
But there was a moment when I remembered Mrs. Hayling’s words; her seeming nonchalance about the beatings she had received from her husband.  
  
“Do not dwell overmuch on it,” he said to me suddenly, and I realised that he was staring intently at me with concern marring his delicate features. I had apparently paused whilst undressing him, and with his usual keen insight he had deduced my innermost thoughts. “She is safe now. She will never allow herself to be in such a situation again.”  
  
“I know, but it does upset me.”  
  
“I know it does, and I love you all the more for it. Mrs. Hayling was rather admirable, was she not? Let us take from her a positive attitude and determination to overcome those who would so abuse the weak and vulnerable.”  
  
“That is quite… philosophical of you, my darling,” I told him fervently.  
  
“I am not entirely ignorant of sentiment, nor of the human condition,” he chided gently. “I do know what it is to be alone and without a warm hand and gentle soul next to me in my bed at night.”  
  
“Oh, my darling,” I ejaculated. “I know that you do. But you will never have to experience that again.”  
  
*  
  
I swallowed him completely and eagerly—so utterly, completely eagerly—swallowed down his emissions. God, he tastes like honey and whisky and bits of heaven.  
  
And he is—  
  
absolutely  
  
completely  
  
mine.  
  
[Sherlock’s usual codicil is written in what appears to be charcoal pencil—an artist’s tool—and some of the words are obscured and difficult to read: _That you care so very much for the well-being of our clients makes me somehow ache inside. This case—there was something about Nancy (yes, John, I remembered her Christian name; I do retain some things) that made me admire her very much, and I believe that you concur. That her husband beat her—I know that I do not ordinarily say very much at all about women—but this was wrong, and I am frankly glad that he died._  
  
_Do you think that I am a wicked person for being glad that Jeremiah Hayling is dead?_  
  
_I do both love and respect you so very much, John._ ]  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his cuttings.
> 
> “Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he. “It appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:
> 
> “Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was dressed in - etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy.”
> 
> “Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that explains what the girl said.”
> 
> “Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford.”
> 
> (Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Engineer’s Thumb”)


End file.
